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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22831909">Geralt of Trivia and the Lady Who Wasn't a Werewolf</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askell/pseuds/Askell'>Askell</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bad Jokes, Crack, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, Funny, Gen, Humor, Innuendo, M/M, Pre-Slash, Swearing, being absolutely wasted with your bro, kurwa, true slav spirit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 13:35:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,618</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22831909</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askell/pseuds/Askell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Common folk say witchers can't be defeated by something as trivial as alcohol. Five bottles of vodka and a beast that may or may not be a werewolf will prove them wrong.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>105</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Geralt of Trivia and the Lady Who Wasn't a Werewolf</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Peasants say that witchers don’t feel. They don’t sense pain or love or morals. Nothing can lay them down besides fire and a stake to the heart. But that might be vampires, they’re not entirely sure. Damon Boat-Feet says that witchers also have three of what men usually get only two of, but he’s also a renowned cretin. Most people however agree that such a trivial thing as alcohol probably has no more effect on monsters than it does on other monsters. They are dead wrong.</p><p>Jaskier was a man of academic knowledge. In fact, he often carried books on his person. It just so happened that he was privy on the Oxenfurt special library. Nothing motivates a student to pour over dusty tomes as when carved inside is a space to hold demijohns from which to pour one for themselves. He had spent most of the evening sharing An Incomplete History Of The Rihannon Bloodline with his travel companion, the now famous witcher Geralt of Rivia. </p><p>Geralt of Trivia, as he had proven for the past two hours, talking the bard’s ear off. His science of swords and how to maintain them in a hard, straight shape for maximum penetration would have been hilarious had it been an euphemism. It wasn’t. The man was actually seriously explaining the best oils to use on a man’s blade and the correct sharpening strokes one must apply to their sword to keep it strong and healthy. Oh what a song that would make. The bard was already familiar with the raunchy potential of some professions such as potters, and gladly added any expert of the blade to his personal collection.</p><p>They both sat on a bench outside a crowded tavern, which for the sweet summer days -by which they meant people only froze their toes off and did not potentially sacrifice future generations to sitting outside- had opened its doors to the backyard. They did not sit alone, for no less than three or five empty bottles of vodka kept them company. Jaskier could proudly claim that he had gone through a good three-quarters of the first bottle, which was a lot for a man with such few fat on his hips. All the rest was the witcher. </p><p>“And then,” the big lump was saying, speaking with his hands as if it made more sense. “And then you don’t want to overdo it on the oil, or your blade will be too slick. A slick blade damages the sheath-”</p><p>“Does it now? I would have thought the sheathing would be easier,” smirked Jaskier, raising an eyebrow. </p><p>“A good sheath doesn’t need any oil to accept the blade.”</p><p>“True, true,” snorted Jaskier. “That’s why old sheaths are the best, the leather is already worn enough for the whole operation to go smoothly.”</p><p>“I’ll drink to that.” And he did. </p><p>Some men started to intone the first notes of the fishmonger daughter’s song, immediately joined by Geralt who threw his big log of an arm around the bard’s shoulder for emphasis. They swayed and sang with all the powers of their lungs, which was a lot. At some point the tavern owner’s wife came to yell at them to shut it unless they wanted her broom square up where no sun is ever suppose to shine. Rising up with the full barrel-sized height of his person, Geralt stumbled into the street with the bard in tow. </p><p>“Where is my horse, <i>kurwa</i>. Is that my horse?”</p><p>“Pretty sure that’s a maiden.”</p><p>“Looks like my horse that one,” grunted Geralt, ignoring the offended gasp, then to his companion: “It’s the teeth.”</p><p>“D’you have the keys though?”</p><p>“The keys. What keys?”</p><p>“Well, the keys to your horse.”</p><p>The witcher stopped right in his tracks, a blank look on his face. He pat his numerous pockets. Jaskier helped, patting his breast and back pockets. He was a true good friend. They didn’t find the keys. </p><p>“Well you whoreson, looks like you’ll have to walk back to the tavern,” said Jaskier.</p><p>“I don’t even know what that is.” Geralt looked thoroughly confused. “Oh wait, I do.”</p><p>“Then onward my noble friend, lead the way.”</p><p>“Did you lose the tavern as well?”</p><p>“That I might have my brave, gigantic companion!”</p><p>Both men swore and tried to walk in any direction that might be the tavern, except backward which was where it actually was. Thus started a great journey which took them two paces to the left, three steps to the right, five leaps somewhere in the direction of a funny-looking house and one perilous attempt at turning around, right in front of an old man. </p><p>“Why are you so small, my good man,” asked Geralt with genuine puzzlement between his eyebrows. </p><p>“Melitele’s shiny flaps Geralt, you can’t ask people why they’re small.”</p><p>“And why are you so tall, you residue of an incest,” laughed the old man, which made the other two drunks laugh as well. </p><p> </p><p>Half-Blind Piotr the old man invited them to his house, from which they were promptly thrown out by an angry daughter. Thus they used what was left of their sense of balance to try to gather on a bench without breaking their noses on the wall in the process. </p><p>“So, you see we have a werewolf right after Bald Piotr’s house. That’s not me, I’m half-bald only, ha!”</p><p>“And how do you know it’s a werewolf? Could very well be a dirty dog.”</p><p>“Oh she’s a naughty bitch that one but I guarantee I’ve never seen a dog that big! Go see for yourself if you don’t trust a half-blind old man,” the half-blind old man cackled. </p><p>And so they went. It may have taken them two tried and one powerful slap from a matron which nearly made Jaskier swallow his own teeth, but they found it. They also found more alcohol in the hands of a man too scared to stop Geralt from taking it, which was definitely a requirement for such a glorious quest. The witcher had no swords but neither did the bard have his wits. Without their best weapons, they would have to resolve to ruse and deceit. </p><p>“I was raised by bears,” solemnly announced Geralt. “I need no weapon.”</p><p>“You will definitely need to tell me about that one day, my darling boulder. Was your childhood filled with fresh salmon and fat winters? Were you cast away by the dominant male for letting your eyes wander on the -no doubt- lovely bosom of his wife? So many stories the world is missing out on.”</p><p>“Hmm,” he grunted, drinking like a thirsty man from the gulet of the bottle then threw it aside. </p><p>The night was threatening to fall, and to be honest so did Jaskier. Propped against the fence of a pigsty, he hollered his love and encouragements to his dear darling friend.</p><p>“No one's slick as Geralt,” he yell-sang. “No one's quick as Geralt, no one's neck's as incredibly thick as Geralt’s! For there's no man in town half as manly, perfect, and thick as a basalt!”</p><p>And what a glorious fight that was. The beast smelled fouler than Jaskier’s socks after a long trail around the marsh, and looked about as dirty. It’s growls raised the hair on his arms like pleasant company usually raises another part of his anatomy. Punches and jabs were traded, ears were bitten, mothers were insulted. At some point, the beast grabbed a bucket and shattered it in the witcher’s face. Thus was defeated the greatest hero of their time. Many a tragic ballads would be composed in the honor of the White Wolf, though he laid face down in manure presently. </p><p>“Dear darling, though you stink I shall profess my love to your dying body,” he cried, resting his head on the witcher’s lovely bottom. “For there was never a man like my Gerry, like the one they call the White Wolf-”</p><p>“Shut your whoremouth,” Geralt groaned, grabbing the bard’s legs close to his chest. </p><p>Both men were promptly claimed by the angels of sleep and their wet snouts sniffling their limp limbs. They were awaken by a bucket of used water thrown at their face. Several piglings flew away from the grunting and groaning witcher, who blinked a few times before shielding his eyes with his hand. </p><p>“You’re finally awake you fucking drunkard! Go fuck yourself and take that pitiful bard with you!” yelled a young girl, hands on her hips. “After what you did to my poor mother, you should be ashamed!”</p><p>“...fuck.”</p><p>“That’s all you have to say, you boarheaded goatfucker?!”</p><p>“The werewolf!” Jaskier jerked awake, his hair flattened by manure on one side of his head and sticking up on the other where he’d pressed it to the witcher’s powerful thigh. </p><p>“Not this again,” the girl groaned, raising her eyes to the sky. “It’s a joke for fuck’s sake, a fucking joke and now that jerk Piotr sends fucking witchers to our house.”</p><p>Both men looked at each other, snippets of the evening coursing back through their shared brain cell. Jaskier did remember a werewolf, but honestly he had been really busy finding a rhyme with ‘Geralt’. It’s not so easy, you know. </p><p>“Shouldn’t a young maiden such as yourself speak in a more proper manner?” the bard chastised.</p><p>“Shouldn’t a motherfucker such as yourself get lost?”</p><p>“Okay, fair, I deserved that. Let’s go Geralt, this place simply doesn’t appreciate your heroism.</p><p>The witcher grunted, trying to stop the small demons dancing on his skull from having a full-blown party. Using the bard as a crutch, he finally managed to find his horse. What a relief. What a night. This is why books are dangerous.</p>
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